Remembrance
by Haleykim
Summary: Bruce goes to visit the site of his parents' murder in Crime Alley but refuses to take Dick with him for fear of something bad happening to him. Dick, of course, goes anyway.


**A/N: This story was written for the awesome sidekickheroisms as part of a Christmas fic exchange. Her prompt was: ****Every year, Bruce goes to visit the site of his parents' murder in Crime Alley. He likes to go alone, simply because Crime Alley is notoriously dangerous, and he won't risk losing someone else to it, but Dick, unaware of these feelings, is worried about Bruce and follows him anyway.**

******Happy holidays, everyone!****  
**

* * *

Bruce Wayne scowled at the clock displayed in the bottom right corner of the computer monitor in the Batcave. It was almost time. Dressed in his Batman suit, cowl down, he was mentally preparing himself for the night ahead. Behind him, Alfred was noisily sweeping the floor; it was the old man's subtle way of lending him strength and support, and Bruce appreciated it.

The sudden sound of light footsteps trotting down the stairs made him bow his head for a moment. He was not looking forward to this part.

"Hi, Alfred!" he heard an enthusiastic voice greet the butler behind him. The owner of the voice was beside him seconds later, and Bruce reluctantly turned his chair to face the boy, who was practically bouncing.

"Bruuuuuuce! Where are we going tonight?"

Bruce steeled himself. "I'm sorry, Dick. Robin can't accompany Batman tonight." He suppressed a cringe as he watched the excitement in the bright blue eyes dampen and the boy's face fall.

"What? Why? It's not a school night!"

"That has nothing to do with it. This is a mission that Batman has to take care of alone."

"But why? And what mission?"

"You don't need to know. It's just too dangerous to take Robin along."

Dick scowled. "I've been on dangerous missions before!"

Bruce felt his patience start to slip away, like sand pouring through an hour glass. Why did Dick have to be such a stubborn kid? "Not like this one. Dick, it's too dangerous," he repeated, though he knew repeating statements wasn't likely to convince Dick of anything.

"All the more reason for me to come, Bruce! If it's so dangerous, you should have back-up!"

"I said no, Dick. That's final. And if you keep questioning me, Robin will be staying home tomorrow night as well." Looking at the angry young face before him, Bruce knew he was being harsh and unreasonable. But he had to leave Dick out of this. He couldn't risk losing him.

Not him. Not Dick.

"But _why_? Why won't you just tell me what-"

"That's it. Robin's grounded for the weekend."

Dick's eyes grew wide. "That's not fair!"

"I warned you, Dick. Now, drop it."

Dick glared at him, and Bruce didn't blame him; he hadn't given Dick any good reason for why he couldn't come along. Dick had been Robin for a little under a year now and during that time he'd faced some of Gotham's worst villains, including the Joker. Suggesting that any mission was too dangerous for Robin at this point was preposterous, and they both knew it.

Then why was he so reluctant to bring him along?

"Fine!" Dick said, his scowl deepening. "Do whatever you want, I don't care!" Bruce's eyes followed the boy as he ran up the stairs and disappeared. He waited for a door to slam, but it didn't.

"Pardon me, Master Bruce," Alfred's voice said from the bottom of the stairs, and Bruce started.

"If you don't mind my asking, why did you not inform Master Dick of your reasons for not wanting him along on this particular mission? I'm sure he would understand."

Bruce shook his head. He'd considered it, briefly. But explaining the problem to Dick would mean talking about his parents' murder, which meant opening up a fortress of pain and sorrow that he wasn't ready to talk about with a ten-year-old. Not today. "I just couldn't, Alfred," he said finally.

He looked up at the man who knew him better than anyone, but instead of the disapproval he'd expected to see in his face, he saw only sadness. The sight made his heart twist uncomfortably and he turned away. "Batman's going out, Alfred. Look after Dick for me?"

"Of course, sir."

Bruce left.

oOo 

Batman landed on the rooftop with a soft thump. He replaced his grapple gun on his utility belt and stood, staring down at the street below.

Park Row. The street where his parents had been brutally gunned down all those years ago. The transformation it had undergone was as dramatic as his own. Park Row had once been a place for the wealthy, a street lined with magnificent trees and flower beds, with well-kept houses inhabited by people of status.

The murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne had changed everything. Not long after the tragic shooting, crime began to flourish prompting people to move away, their former homes falling in disrepair. Criminals all but claimed the neighborhood for themselves, and Park Row became Crime Alley.

Bruce Wayne, once a happy boy, loved and adored by his parents, was orphaned and traumatized. Darkness began to take hold of him and a cold determination to rid Gotham City of crime took over his mind, fueling his eventual transformation to Batman.

The dark knight shifted and inhaled the sweet scent of the two lily-white roses he held delicately between his gloved fingers. Every year on this day Batman would visit the murder site, which paradoxically was also the birthplace of Batman, to commemorate Martha and Thomas Wayne.

Today marked the twentieth anniversary of their deaths.

Batman retrieved his grapple gun and shot a line, sailing to the ground. He landed in front of a solitary light post, the only one on the street that still worked, even though the light was weak and flickering. It made the place seem even more deserted and despondent, and Batman felt a familiar heaviness settle in his heart.

Batman was never one for dwelling on what could-have-been, but sometimes he indulged in playing out what-if scenarios, particularly when it came to his parents. If Thomas and Martha Wayne had lived, would Gotham still have become the dark, crime-infested city it was today? Would Bruce Wayne be a happily-married man? Would he have children? What about Dick? Would his parents still be alive?

Dick.

Batman bowed his head. He'd been far too harsh to the boy when he had done nothing wrong; he'd really only asked for an explanation, and what's more, he'd been worried about _him_! To be honest, he didn't know why he'd been so unreasonable. His parents' murder was a sensitive subject with him, and probably always would be, but it was no excuse for his irrational and frankly unkind behavior towards Dick, a boy who had experienced a similar tragedy and suffered an identical loss as he himself had. A boy who did not deserve to be treated like he had just a couple of hours ago. His loss was far more recent than Bruce's, and his pain still so raw. Bruce had only wanted to protect him, but- well, he knew all too well what good intentions could lead to.

He would have to apologize to him tomorrow. And think of a way to explain why he'd been such an asshole.

Reminding himself of the reason he was here and remembering the roses he was holding, he raised his head and cast a quick glance around to ensure he was still alone. It wouldn't do to allow himself to get ambushed.

The street, however, was empty. There were sounds of criminal activity in the distance – breaking glass, raised voices – but aside from that, it was unusually quiet. If he'd believed in the afterlife, he might have taken it as a sign from his parents. But he didn't, and the quiet was more unsettling than pleasing.

Assured that the direct vicinity was secure, he knelt down and carefully arranged the two roses on the ground, on the exact spot where his parents had died. He stayed there for a few moments, allowing the memories to flicker briefly in his mind.

The bark of a gun splintered the silence and for the briefest second, he was watching his father getting shot all over again. But the cry that followed didn't sound like his father's had, nor like his mother's scream.

It was the cry of a child. A boy. And it was…familiar.

He felt the blood drain from his face, his heart begin to pound.

It was impossible. Robin was home, safe.

Cold sweat prickled the back of his neck, and he was on his feet and sprinting in the direction where both the gunshot and the cry had originated from. There was shouting now, angry voices and malicious laughter, and Batman quickly pinpointed the source and adjusted his course. He was close, but no matter how hard his legs were pumping, it felt like he was miles away.

_Finally_ he rounded the corner. And stopped dead.

Six men were crowded around someone lying on the ground. They were kicking at them and yelling, their faces twisted in cruel sneers, but it was what they were shouting that made his blood run cold.

"…bad daddy's not here right now, eh, little Robin?"

"…the snot outta the kid to teach the Bat a lesson!"

"…bullet in his eye!"

The growl that Batman emitted was enough to make all six of the thugs whirl around and stare at him in horror. It gave him an unobstructed view of the boy lying curled up on his side on the ground between them. The dark hair, and the red, yellow and black of the uniform confirmed the cold fear that had taken up residence in his mind: it was Robin.

When he looked at Robin – his partner, his ward – the pale, bloodied and bruised face stirred up a hot fury deep inside him.

The first thug was down before he'd even had a chance to raise the gun he'd had in his hand. The remaining men milled about in panic and didn't seem to know whether they should charge at him or run for their lives.

Batman didn't give them the time to decide.

He elbowed the nearest thug in the jaw, hearing a satisfying crack, before taking out another guy by delivering a brutal kick that dislocated a kneecap. Two other men went down simultaneously after he double-punched one in the head and then broke the other's nose with an upward thrust of the palm of his hand. He whipped around to take care of the sixth – and froze.

The man had crouched down next to Robin, who was still lying on his side, wrapped a fist in the dark hair and yanked the boy's head back. A knife was pressed against the vulnerable throat.

"Stay right there, Batman, or I swear I'll kill the kid!"

Batman narrowed his eyes, but slowly held out his arms, turning the palms of his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. The man – short, flabby and in his late-forties – was no match for him, but the hand that was holding the knife to Robin's throat was unsteady and Batman could already see a small drop of blood rolling down the boy's throat. His heart was beginning to pound again. He would never be able to reach Robin in time if the man decided to make good on his threat.

Robin's face was twisted in pain, and Batman now noticed that he was clutching his thigh with one hand, his other arm seemingly trapped behind his back. Blood was seeping through the gloved fingers and his heart rate shot up several notches. There was a substantial bruise on his cheek and his bottom lip was split and swelling. However, despite his obvious discomfort and the pain that was etched into his face, his expression was defiant.

"Alright, now walk away, Batman. Just back up, turn the corner and walk away."

"How do I know you won't harm Robin anyway?"

"You don't. You're just gonna have to– AAAGH!"

Without warning, Robin had moved the arm that had been hidden behind his back and apparently inflicted some kind of pain on the man threatening to slit his throat because the next thing Batman knew the knife was clattering to the ground and the man was reaching for his crotch.

Batman had grabbed the man's arm and was hauling him away from Robin before his mind even registered that his body had moved. He took particular satisfaction in knocking the guy out, making sure waking up would be an especially painful experience. Quickly securing the man's hands behind his back, he glanced around to verify that the other thugs were still out cold or otherwise disabled, and then rushed to the boy, who hadn't moved from his curled up position on the ground.

"Robin!"

Batman dropped to his knees beside the boy and immediately reached for the injured leg. He gingerly pulled Robin's hand away so he could inspect the wound, his anger returning full-force when he realized it had been caused by a bullet that had grazed the thin thigh.

His stomach twisted in hot anger. Those damn bastards had shot his boy!

Gritting his teeth, he forced down his outrage to avoid crushing Robin's leg as he examined it. The bleeding wasn't too bad; the boy had clearly been extremely lucky that the bastard who'd shot him had very poor aim, but the wound was going to need proper cleaning and more than a few stitches.

"B-Batman," Robin started.

"Shhh, Robin." Batman quickly retrieved a roll of bandages from his utility belt and set about wrapping it around Robin's leg, reminding himself to be _gentle_.

Despite his efforts to be careful, Robin let out a soft hiss.

"Batman, I-I'm sorry."

Batman efficiently finished bandaging the leg and shifted his attention to the boy's face. The blood and bruises he saw there threatened to stir up his anger again. He moved his hand to cup Robin's cheek. "Are you all right?"

Robin nodded, but Batman could tell he was hurting more than he was letting on. He gingerly ran his gauntleted fingers through the dark hair and encountered a sizeable, bloody bump just beneath the hairline.

Batman frowned. Concussion.

Carefully tipping Robin onto his back, taking care to support his neck as he did so, he quickly ran his hands over the rest of the boy's body in search of other injuries. Conscientiously cataloguing and filing away every bruise and abrasion as well as the more serious hurts – a sprained wrist, several bruised or perhaps even cracked ribs and a badly sprained ankle – he was having a hard time keeping his anger in check. What the hell had they done to him?!

Robin groaned softly. "Batman- Batman, I'm s-sorry."

"Don't apologize," Batman said. It came out more gruffly than he intended because Robin's eyebrows drew together, his skin paling even further, and his bottom lip beginning to tremble.

"I shouldn't- shouldn't have followed you. I'm s-sorry."

Batman's hands returned to Robins face, gently wiping at the blood on his chin and the side of his face with a gloved finger. "Hush, Robin. I'm taking you home. Don't move, I'll be right back."

Batman rose to tie up the thugs before they recovered enough to make a break for it – making damn sure the zip ties were biting into their skin – and paused long enough to alert Gotham PD. Swiftly returning to Robin, who had obediently stayed where he was, he crouched down beside him and, mindful of his injuries, scooped him up in his arms.

He strode out of the alley and headed towards the Batmobile, which was parked several blocks away.

Not once did he look back at the criminals trussed up like Christmas turkeys behind him, or at the two roses that were carefully arranged on the ground. 

oOo 

Bruce Wayne raked a shaky hand through his hair as he stared at the boy lying in the bed before him.

He had arrived with Dick at Wayne Manor ninety minutes ago. Alfred had taken one look at the boy, who by then had been half-asleep, and had immediately placed a phone call to Dr. Leslie Thompkins, who had promised to come by as soon as she was able.

She'd arrived thirty minutes later.

Leslie confirmed Bruce's initial assessment of Dick's injuries and treated them expertly. Two of Dick's ribs were severely bruised if not broken, but a chest x-ray would have to provide a definitive diagnosis. Because the treatment for bruised and cracked ribs is similar, however, and Dick didn't seem to be having trouble breathing, Leslie didn't deem it necessary to have the x-rays taken straight away.

The bullet wound had been disinfected and stitched up and the sprained limbs bandaged and iced. The head injury had been taken care of and Bruce was under strict orders to closely monitor Dick's condition for the next twenty-four hours and to contact her right away if Dick's headache worsened, or if his condition otherwise deteriorated.

All in all, things could've been a lot worse.

He could've lost Dick today.

Bruce leaned forward a little, propping his elbows on his knees, and gazed at Dick's battered face. After suffering through Leslie's poking and prodding, Dick had fallen asleep in his own bed. His bottom lip was red and a little swollen, with a faint cut running down the middle, and his left cheekbone was a dark purple. Another cut on his forehead was covered with a butterfly band aid, a ring of bruises surrounding it.

Dick shifted a little, frowning and moaning softly as he did so. Bruce watched closely, but the boy didn't open his eyes and after a few seconds his expression relaxed and his breathing evened out once more. Bruce's gaze fell on a stray dark eyelash that had drifted down onto a pale cheek and he carefully brushed it away with his thumb.

The sound of a doorknob turning prompted him to look up, just in time to watch Alfred come in with a tray bearing a glass of water, a bottle of painkillers and a steaming cup of what smelled like freshly-brewed coffee.

An irrational flash of anger stabbed at Bruce. "Alfred, I asked you to look after Dick when I left."

Alfred straightened after depositing the glass of water and the painkillers on the bedside table. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"You were supposed to look after Dick while I was away. You let him go after me."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "I will take full responsibility for failing to notice Master Dick leaving the Manor, Master Bruce. However, it is never a good idea to keep secrets from a child, especially not from one so inquisitive as Master Dick as it only serves to further their curiosity—"

"Bruce?" a brittle voice interrupted Alfred. "Bruce, please don't blame Alfred... It- it was my fault."

Bruce immediately turned to the bed and was faced with a clearly agitated Dick. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and eased him back against the pillows propped behind his back. "Shhh, Dick, it's all right."

Dick looked up at him urgently, imploringly. "No, Bruce, it wasn't Alfred's fault. I- I pretended to be sleeping and waited till after Alfred looked in on me before- before sneaking out."

"Sneaking out after I told you to stay here was wrong, Dick," Bruce said sternly. "So was purposely tricking Alfred."

Dick winced, though Bruce couldn't tell whether it was from his words or the boy's injuries, and Alfred cleared his throat.

Bruce sighed, his features softening. "But Alfred is right. I should've told you what was going on and why I didn't want you to come with me. If anything, this is my fault."

Confused blue eyes stared at him.

Bruce accepted the steaming cup of coffee Alfred handed him and took a deep breath. "You were right, Dick. I _was_ being unfair when I grounded you. The reason why I didn't want you to come with me tonight is because I was going to visit Crime Alley—"

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Is- is that where we were? Crime Alley…that's- that's where your parents…" Dick trailed off, biting on his lower lip.

Bruce nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. He took a sip from his coffee, the hot liquid helping to clear his throat. "And that's why I didn't want you with me tonight. Today marks the twentieth anniversary of their— deaths. I didn't want to lose anyone else today. Not there."

"And then I went and got myself hurt anyway," Dick said, the self-recrimination clear in his voice, eyebrows drawn downwards in a scowl that was obviously directed at himself. "I'm sorry, Bruce."

Bruce leaned forward and brushed a cool cheek with his fingers. "It's all right, kiddo. I'm sorry too. I know you just wanted to help. How are you feeling?"

"Like I fell off a roof."

Bruce almost choked on his coffee. "You fell off a roof?!"

"I- yeah," Dick said, his gaze falling to the blanket. Bruce noticed the faint flush in his cheeks. "I was- I was watching you from a rooftop and- and I know it was really stupid, but I guess I didn't pay enough attention to my surroundings, and then- and then suddenly my leg was on fire and I lost my balance. I- I fell from the roof and landed on the fire-escape, and then those guys who shot me- they dragged me down and started beating on me."

Bruce swallowed hard. Dick had fallen off a rooftop?! Holy Christ, he could've broken his neck! If he hadn't landed on that fire-escape…if he'd landed on the ground- god. It didn't even bear thinking about.

"How did you find me?" Bruce asked, trying to steer his thoughts away from images of a broken, twisted body.

"I- I followed you, on my bike. Then when you stashed the Batmobile, I shadowed you on foot."

Bruce blinked. Dick had shadowed him? He hadn't even noticed! Either he'd been too preoccupied or Dick had gotten _really_ good at shadowing. A sense of pride blossomed within him, but before he could say anything, Dick groaned.

"The R-Cycle!" he said, letting his head fall back against the pillows. "Oh man, I left it out on the streets! It's probably gone by now."

"Don't worry about it, kiddo. I'll look for it tomorrow. If it's gone, Batman will arrange for a new, maybe even improved one." Bruce winked and Dick grinned, his eyes gleaming. Then the boy's expression grew hesitant.

"Um. Bruce? Will you take me to the- to the site at Crime Alley sometime?"

Bruce felt his shoulders tense a little, and he carefully placed his now empty cup on the nightstand. "Maybe when you're older, Dick. But right now, I don't want you anywhere near that place."

Dick's face fell a little, but he nodded. "I understand."

Someone else in the room suddenly cleared his throat, and Bruce started slightly. He'd forgotten Alfred was there.

"Pardon me, Master Wayne. Might I suggest a visit to Wayne cemetery once Master Dick has healed?"

Bruce immediately felt Dick's hopeful gaze on him, and he smiled. "I think that's an excellent idea, Alfred." He looked up at the old butler, knowing he owed the man both a thank-you and an apology. "And Alfred-"

"That's quite all right, sir," Alfred said primly, fussing a little over Dick's blanket. "Now, could I interest either of you in a cup of tea?" 

oOo 

Two weeks later, Bruce stood in front of his parents' tomb stones. Dick was standing beside him, holding a beautiful wreath that was dotted with white roses. He'd insisted on buying it with his own money, money he had saved from his old circus days.

Bruce stepped forward and brushed away some of the snow that had accumulated on top of the tomb stones. The weather in Gotham had deteriorated quickly over the past two weeks, with temperatures falling below freezing and precipitation rapidly transforming from icy rain and sleet to snow.

Both Bruce and Alfred had insisted that Dick bundle up, and though the boy didn't appreciate being fussed over, he had dressed warmly to appease them. Most of his injuries had healed by now; his slight limp was the only indication that he was still recovering.

When Bruce returned to Dick's side, he noticed Dick tighten his grip on the wreath and very quickly run his teeth over his, no longer swollen, bottom lip. Then the boy strode forward, knelt down on the snow and carefully placed the wreath against the tombstone. He straightened, and solemnly remained standing there for a few moments.

The gesture touched something deep inside Bruce, and when Dick stepped back again, Bruce wrapped an arm around the thin shoulders and pulled him against him.

He didn't know how long they stood there, but when he felt a shiver run through the small body beside him, despite the heavy coat, scarf and gloves he was wearing, Bruce felt it time to return to the manor.

As they turned and slowly walked back to where Alfred was waiting by the car, Bruce's arm still encircling the boy's shoulders, Bruce noticed it was snowing again.

Dick looked up at him. "Bruce?" he said, his voice quiet. "Thanks for taking me to visit your parents' grave."

Bruce smiled at him and reached down with his free hand to brush the snowflakes from the dark hair. "You're welcome, kiddo. I'm glad you came." And he was, despite his apprehension earlier that morning.

"Do you think maybe we could- come more often?"

Bruce looked down at him in surprise. "Why?"

Dick blushed fiercely. "I dunno, I just- I'm just grateful that they- gave me you."

Bruce halted, stunned, staring down at the young face beside him. Dick was grateful Thomas and Martha Wayne had given-? God.

"Bruce? I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—"

"No, no, it's okay, Dick," Bruce interrupted, realizing the boy's expression had turned apprehensive and shaking himself from his stupor. "That- was a very nice thing to say."

Dick smiled up at him in relief, and Bruce started them moving again. They walked in silence for a while, before he felt Dick lean closer against him.

"Merry Christmas, Bruce."

Bruce smiled and squeezed his shoulder, holding him a little tighter. "Merry Christmas, kiddo."


End file.
